And the clock strikes 3 a.m
still awake and crackling
pain does that to your mind and lips
it detaches a swirl of orange lust
fixating it to prayers and oxygen.
I become breathless, hard as a tomb of a wolf
how blessed are the souls who breathe effortlessly
The pale air climbs my feet and then my watered bosom
with mirrored stones, some mundane puffs I breathe
And the clock strikes 4 a.m
still regenerating the amorphous conversation like a silhouette
I breathe like a ghost
and the pain ascends further on my black curls, splashing
the pit hole talks and a whirlpool of paralysis.
Pain. Pain is a connection between the living and the dead.
Learn its formation. It breaks you, firmaments of tiny blue crystals.
Envelopes of blue talks and blue hopes stick to this breathless staired body.
Do not draw art and do not juggle stars
Take a long brush and insert patterns of demarcations and directions
I am a moist conversation trying to soak your presence
And this pain comes and goes, my body is now a complete sanitarium.
Oh, the clock strikes 6 a.m
I sit here absorbing my own vault tears, sobbing the dirt that was under my blanket. Moist blankets and roses crawl like an uncanny mist all over my face and crack me here on my nostrils, on my thighs that now lie like a drunk teenager amidst the forbidden land, a forest. Earlier this morning, I made myself a cup of coffee thinking how to cope up the last day’s bruises and to survive once again, but darn to my coffee. The taste is still peculiar and hideous.
I sit in the sunshine later to enhance my beautiful body like a golden shimmer and to hide the darkness, back to back I chant Sylvia’s Plath “ you do not do, you do not do” and sync its voice with my unheard screams. I gaze at this perforated Universe, trying to understand the images real and the ones still haunting me. I think of my mother, I think of my sister, I think of my Husband, my eyes still lost between the latent lights and the iniquity of unheard footsteps kicking inside my mind.
I am a quark, motionless and Vintage sulking the gravity of your eyes and iterating its resonance in my mind again and again. Thumping. Striking. I fight and flap as I hear your murmurings dropping like a dirt on my vermilion hair strands. You know how I wanted to kill your sibling, Time. desiccating its thunder and burying the dark blood veins into a pit of abstract mannequins. Oh, time…you are a Devil perhaps.
This syndrome I carry, Seraphic, a butterfly in cocoon churlish eyesight, colliding with your wounds. I will sew your pain Believe me, for I am the traveller of scars, I will kiss your moonlit tears and the paths it travelled, I am an archaic smell of vintage champagne. I shall regenerate always, I shall not die, and when I do, I shall with you.
Sacrosanct air, violet toes touching , spamming grounds
An eggshell face, with polka-dots
this family is vintage.
With bewildering tales, this air becomes scissor-talks,
A temple is burnt,
A miscarriage occurs,
The soil is pale black, the tremors are afraid
to knock the window pane.
You and I see this
We carry the stimuli of paranoia.
Splinters of forgotten prayers are stuck
to this void eye
Your brown eye,
my black eye,
What aftermath we plan?
Here, a lizard is awakened to walk across the parched souls
Here, a coffin is opened.
So we plan to walk into the land of oblivion words
where Grey- is the colour.
Tonight, I shall rip my mind
bifurcating like thin veins
for I see hot wax resting
on my body,
for I am lips and lips of shooting fire
tonight, I shall cry
and vomit my parched pain
like shattered poppies
lying in the coffin
for dark is my home
dark is my poetry
the inside of poetry is me,
and I am dark as Satan’s eye.
Beyond this cracking wall, in the horizon of that empty dusk,
I walk in the blues of protrusion of my floral cheeks
my mind scratched, my heart stabbed
A partition of a falling star and constellation of stars
a Meraki of a paper boat, if you know
I walk in unknown thorns, small, oval, sweet and bitter
if bitterly waves reside in this moment, I shall conjure my body
with naked dust
And that dust will still hurt my iris,
for my eyes has seen the deep red scar